Chapter Text
APRIL 22ND 2077- 1:34AM - THE AFTERLIFE
Claire was fixing up a cocktail and nodding to the other mercs leaving for the night, wary of the gloomy energy emanating from the woman at the other end of the bar. Finishing off her creation with a lime twist to the martini glass and handing it to the customer, she made her way over to the poor chick nursing the sad shot of whiskey she'd been given an hour ago.
"I'd say I'm gonna have to cut you off, but you're only on your first," she said, "What's eatin' ya?"
The woman gazed up from behind a curtain of long hair, a darker red than some of the wines on the shelf. An unhealed scar, like streaks of lightning, ran along her veins from her forehead, cheek and neck cutting through her faded tattoo on her chest. There was a fresh swell to her right eye. From a distance, one would think it a mark from a street fight, but it was more the kind you'd get from not taking your meds to stave off inflammation after replacing your optics. She looked like she hadn’t yet taken them, or maybe, she couldn’t afford it.
Behind all this banged-up bruising and back-alley surgery, Claire still recognised the mercenary. The bartender leaned forward to take a closer look at her old choom.
“Shivs? That you?”
The merc said nothing, rocking her tumbler back and forth along the smooth steel bar top, the ice sloshing around with the last few drops of her whiskey.
"The Queen won't see me,” she said.
She turned her head to the booth where Rogue Amendiares, the Queen of Night City’s fixers, was talking to some solo about their cut of the pay for a recent job. The conversation didn't seem to be going well.
"She's got her hands full,” Claire sighed and shrugged, “Besides, she won’t be the only big fixer here. I heard Dexter Deshawn might be coming back. He might have something for you.”
She shook her head. “No one will see me. I fucked up, Claire.”
“Well, at least you and Deshawn have that in common.”
The merc shot her a look that made her regret the comment.
“Jeez…that bad huh?”
She shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know…Runnin’ with the Voodoo Boys to sneak past the Blackwall and losing not only the data you were trying to klep, but half the data your fixer gave you to do the job in the first place, along with your identity, your history, and all your money with it. Would you call that ‘bad’?”
Claire leaned back with her eyes wide, and teeth gritted. “Yikes. Sorry I asked.”
The merc rolled back her shoulder, wincing as she lifted her whiskey to her lips. “I should count myself lucky. I’m still alive. Hands’ll prolly put out the next bounty on me. Don’t know how, I’ve been wiped clean.” She swung back the last of her drink and smiled sadly at the bartender.
“That’s why I go by ‘Rook’ now.”
Claire folded her arms and cocked a brow. “Rook? Oh boy, no wonder Rogue won’t see you.”
“No? I thought it would be a nice tribute,” Rook joked, “Nah, think of it like a rebranding.”
Claire shook her head. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s cute, but not sure what you’re advertising with a name like that. All that comes to mind is the chess piece.”
Rook clicked her tongue and winked with her good eye. “Atta girl. Only moves up, down or side to side. Straight forward business. No more shady two-faced deals to sneak through. No lightning strikes down the tower, no room for ‘great calamities’ and ‘sudden upheaval’. I get paid, do the job, and get out.”
“I’m supposed to get all that from ‘Rook’?”
“Okay, so it’s a bit of an inside joke. You'd get it if you ever got a tarot reading.”
Claire got to cleaning a few glasses, serving some customers, while Rook took her time with her second drink. When it got quieter again, she came back around, pursing her lips at her friend as she pondered their new chosen name.
“Now that I’ve thought about it, the name fits,” she said, smiling as she plopped block of ice in the drink she was preparing, “Kinda sounds like a netrunner tag.”
Rook went tense as her fingers squeezed the glass, making it squeak in protest. She winced, the pain in her arm preventing her from crushing it completely.
“I’m never diving again.”
Claire frowned, her lips parted to speak, but then deciding not to pry. Thank God.
Rook dug into her pockets for her last few Eurodollar bills scrunched up in a ball, setting the tumbler on the counter and wiping her mouth with her sleeve.
“Take care, choom. Might be a while ‘till ya see me again…”
She got up and limped toward the exit, dragging her feet from the weight of the broken chrome in her right arm. Sensing the pissed off solo storming up from Rogue’s booth, she moved aside to let her pass, nodding at the bouncer when he generously opened the door for her.
“Wait up!”
She turned to see Claire taking out the bottle of whiskey she’d ordered before, refilling the glass and popping two fresh cubes of ice.
“On the house.”
Rook stared at the glass with a frown, her right eye closing completely from the swelling. She made her way back over to the bar, flashing Claire a weak smile.
“Can’t let you live on the street,” she said as she poured a shot of tequila for herself, “Forecasts say a dust storm’s coming. Help me close up tonight and you can crash on my couch, then I’ll drive you to the doc in the morning.”
She clinked her glass and tossed it back. Rook did the same, letting the syrupy liquid burn her throat to reassure her that she had some feeling left in her.
“You’re a goddamn peach, Claire. I owe you.”
Claire smiled back and flicked her head to the back of the bar where the cleaning supplies were. “You can start with a wipe down. Someone got blood on the pool table."
APRIL 29, 2077 – 3:40 PM – URMLAND ST, LITTLE CHINA
Rook ripped off the eviction notice on her door. Text scrolled above to let everyone know the rent was overdue by two weeks. If that weren’t enough of a humiliating statement that she was at rock bottom, she noticed signs of her entry pad being tampered with. Slipping inside the first thing she noticed was a home robbed of all the decent tech and weapons, as well as the collection of figurines and ancient-looking pottery she’d collected over the years as a hobby. All that was left inside was a pile of laundry she’d forgotten to put away before the botched job in Pacifica, and even that was mussed up with all her best threads missing.
She could try to report it, call up her insurance handler, but then remembered according to the Net, she didn’t exist. The only reason she could get any kind of money to her name at all was because of the favours she called in from a few old contacts among the Valentinos and a Netwatch rat to set up her new identity.
It had been a week, and still no gigs popped up on Rook’s radar. Claire had been a good friend, letting her crash on the couch and helping along her recovery with another visit to the ripperdoc and a loan to replace her optics with some meds to go with it. There was that nagging feeling that sooner or later she would have overstayed her welcome, and while the tips were decent enough behind the bar, she wasn’t too great at pouring drinks for assholes that loved to poke fun at her monumental fall from grace. To top it all off, Rogue would not even acknowledge her. She was as good as dead to her.
How ironic it was to be the only real ghost in the Afterlife.
Such thoughts clouded her mind as she walked through the streets of Watson. The smell of trash, cigarette smoke and a gross mix of chow mien and pizza wasting away on the sidewalk was enough to make a foreigner gag, but it had a strange essence of home to her.
At least it used to be home.
Turning into Urmland Street, the mad ravings of Garry the Prophet preaching his wild theories suddenly snapped up her attention. She laughed a little at his new sermon about space elves being blessed by the angels is a lie told by the vampires on Alpha Centauri, and that they must be freed. She wondered if she could have what he was having, and a sudden craving for a hit of glitter surged through her body. She stuck her hands in her pockets and glanced up at the storefronts, wondering if there were any other opportunities she could maybe take a second job for. There was the dollhouse Gomorrah, the windows showcasing a couple pretty-looking dolls twirling and grinding on poles against a bright pink curtain. Nodding along to the thumping music coming from inside and remembering her time at Lizzie’s, she had enough of an ego left over to believe she was still dexterous enough to learn the moves. Being a doll again shouldn’t be too bad, right?
Then there was Misty’s Esoterica, sending out a gentle waft of incense that serenaded her with vanilla, rose and sandalwood as she walked past. It had been a while since she’d gotten a reading from Misty. Her scars itched as a reminder of how accurate her last one was, the girl’s gentle voice resurfaced in her head with the one prediction that she should have heeded.
‘The Tower, a great calamity, one that will change your life forever.’
Two figures walked out of the Esoterica, a tall, jacked guy with a man-bun and a woman who seemed as down on her luck as she was, heading out to the street and into a limo. A woman with a teased bleached blonde bob and dark makeup followed him out, none other than Misty herself. She looked up at the man with a twinkle in her eye, and he put his arm around her with a wide, adoring smile. Rook deduced the big guy must have been the infamous Jackie Welles. The quick peck they shared only confirmed it.
Best not disturb the lovebirds.
Watching them be so into each other caused something to ache inside. At first, she just dismissed it as some nerve crossed with a wire in her chrome, but it stuck around even when she loosened her shoulders to free up the tension. It was a hollow feeling, not hungry, just empty.
Glitter! her brain and lungs screamed out, it won’t fill the hole but it will help.
She shook her head, but still her legs wouldn’t heed the discipline to stave off the craving, and she found herself heading down the side street shortcuts she used to take to Kabuki, to the Tomb where her old dealer used to be.
Just checking if he’s still around, she reassured herself, make sure he’s not in any trouble.
3:59PM – WILLOW ST, KABUKI
The Tomb was what you’d expect of an addict’s hideaway, a garage door with every inch of it claimed by Tyger Claw graffiti, expletives in Japanese, and a massive ‘Death to Corpos’ tag with a flaming red samurai mask. Trash cans that stood on either side were piled to the top and overflowing, and a graveyard of booster canisters, inhalers and cigarettes, dusted with synthcoke. What struck her as odd was how much less of a mess it was than usual, then again it had been over two years since she’d scored with him.
Rook recalled how Manny had been trying to get clean a while back, seeing some preacher about a path to salvation and going legit. He certainly had the makings for it, getting high in his den was always a safe, secure experience. He dosed each hit just right, had snacks and drinks ready to go, made sure everyone came down okay before sending them home. And this being Tyger Claw territory meant the badges were kept at bay.
She knocked on the door.
“Manny, you got a sec?”
No answer.
It took a while but the pungent smell of decay and fried circuitry eventually overtook the usual scent of trash and piss. In a panic she slipped her hands under the door and pulled it up.
She wished she hadn’t.
Manny was no more. The gruesome display of a flayed, rotting corpse, if one could call it that, splayed out like a dissected frog in a steel tray, stripped of its augmentation. The pool of dried blood painted the concrete floor and the discarded viscera swarmed with flies made her gag. She barely held in the bile that threatened to come up, not wanting any of her own DNA to be part of the crime scene.
“No,” she sobbed, “No no no! Fuck! I’m so sorry Manny.”
She took a moment to collect herself, fighting off tears, rubbing the sting out of her eyes as she hopped over the remains to investigate. The place was turned over, the mattresses and stained cushions cut with surgical precision, and stuffing scooped out. Boxes of old vinyls knocked over and ruined in the mayhem, and each drawer and cabinet in the workbench left open. A built-in safe on the far wall was busted open and emptied of its contents, the framed US Cracks Poster that once covered it leaned against the desk with a Japanese proverb written in his blood. ‘The nail that sticks out is hammered in.’
Rook covered her nose with her sleeve and looked over to what remained of Manny, that phrase taken literally with a nail hammered into his skull. Manny for the most part was insistent on living that organic lifestyle, not wanting to be a machine, but even so, whatever necessary chrome he did have was stolen. This was beyond some Tyger Claw hit, more than something the Maelstrom might do for fun, or Scavs to harvest the parts. Unless all three gangs had a reason to come and pick him to pieces, she deduced that the dismantling of her old friend so deliberately was for something big.
“Fuck, Manny, what’d you get yourself into?”
Grabbing the broom leaning beside his minifridge, she turned it around and poked at his exposed skull, turning his head to check the neck. The small light of his neural port softly blinked on and off, signalling the chip stuck inside.
She crouched down and set the broom aside to get a closer look, clicking the port to release the chip. Holding the last piece of her friend in her hands, she debated whether it was safe or ethical to insert it into her own socket, but it might have been the only chance she had at figuring out why Manny got zeroed, or who might have done it.
With a little prayer, she took a deep breath and slotted it in. Immediately the Netwatch logo blinked into her vision, along with a wall of encrypted codes blocking access to the data it contained. Manny was halfway through cracking it before he got hit.
She stretched her neck and cracked her fingers. Decrypting the codes and hacking through the wall. With a satisfying whir of her neural jack working to cool her down from the hack she looked through the files that popped up. Several project plans and operations associated with big-name corporations that were disturbing to say the least. Militech and ‘Condin’ talked about a brainwashing software with ties to various politicos, Arasaka and ‘Soulkiller’ and the price set by Yorinobu himself, NightCorp and ‘Carpe Noctem’, and one last, very detailed look into rebooting a program called ‘Lighthouse’, a sanctuary for runners to be able to explore the Net beyond the Blackwall.
Shit, Rook pulled out the chip, Fuck no, never dealing with the damn Blackwall ever again.
The flash of red and blue at the corner of her eye alerted her to the incoming squad of the NCPD. With no time to escape the way she came, she pocketed the chip and ducked into the conjoining apartment, bolting up the steps and leaping across the alleyway to avoid anyone arresting her on the mere suspicion of murder.
Casually trying to play off as a concerned citizen among other innocents looking in on the commotion. She zoomed into the scene, the new optics Claire’s ripperdoc hooked her up with working like a charm. Four badges blocked off the perimeter while two officers went inside to mark up the evidence and cover the body. Another car – a sweet Villefort Deleon – rolled in, and out emerged a dark woman with a green pantsuit accompanied by some geezer with a pencil moustache and a priest’s collar. Rook put two and two together, must have been the pastor Manny was seeing.
“Please, Detective Gallus, I know it’s unorthodox, but I would much prefer Manfred’s remains be placed in my care,” said the pastor, “He has no living relatives, and while he was part of my flock, he became like family to me.”
The Detective rested a hand on her hip, her eyes scanning the scene before addressing the man’s concerns, “I’m sorry for your loss, Father Emmrich, but at least let me figure out what happened to him. The warning you told me he got might help in another case…”
The rest of the conversation was lost to Rook once they entered the Tomb, the name way too literal now for her heart to bare.
8:02PM
It was a surprise to see the NCPD maintain their presence in Watson as long as they did, but eventually they cleared out, wary of the Tyger Claws closing in to warn them that they had overstayed their welcome.
Rook had been roaming around, calling up old contacts for jobs that would earn her back in the good graces of her fellow mercs. None of them were available, most had already blocked her number, not wanting anything to do with a nobody like her.
She circled back around to revisit the Tomb. The EMTs had done a sweep, and most of the furniture was repossessed. The only thing of Manny’s that remained was the safe and the chip in her pocket.
Rook paced around inside, reminiscing what she could of her dreary days as an addict, the feint smell of death lingered though the intense cleaning it took to wash out the blood and guts masked it enough to make it bearable. She stroked the walls, recalled the times she leant against it, tripping out as the band and movie posters talked to her. She could have sworn Lizzy Wizzy asked her to prom, and she had said yes in a heartbeat.
In the peripherals of that faded memory, while his little family of zombies were distracted, Manny had locked that day’s earnings into his safe. She remembered how sometimes he’d reach in, tiny squares would light up in the bottom corner. Her eyes widened as she brought herself back to the present, rushing up to the safe. It was a number pad.
She reached into the back, pressing a finger into the same corner.
Nothing.
She felt around the sides where the box jutted out of the wall, and found a groove along the bottom, unlatching a hidden port. Heart skipping a beat, she pulled out her chord, hand shaking before finally jacking in. The pad lit up in the corner with a confusing combination of letters and numbers and a passcode bar with enough spaces to fit eight digits. Following the scuff marks where his fingers used to press into the pad, she noted the six keys he had used most. She ran the numbers, sorting through every possible combination quickly in her head. Eventually the answer became obvious.
U5, CR, 4C, K5.
The back of the safe slid open and inside was an inhaler five unused canisters of glitter, and fat stacks of Eurodollars, enough for three weeks of rent and maybe a chance to pay back Claire for all her help.
Buried under all the money was a braindance wreath, and a borderline prehistoric model at that. Could get it appraised, she thought, maybe sell it to a collector. And yet, curiosity compelled her to take a closer look for herself.
There was a virtu already loaded into it; the dark label spelled out a single name.
DR3DDW0LF.
Rook glanced over her shoulder, and once she determined that the coast was clear, she bagged up everything. She ignored the gross feeling of stealing from the dead, checking every excuse in her head to justify her actions. Someone else would have found it eventually, nabbed it all, overdosed on the drugs, start a cycle of theft and murder as the money changed hands. Such was the way of Night City. Never mind her own desperation for the money, or her sober body itching to relapse, she was doing some poor gonk on these streets a favour, saving them from their worst instincts.
Besides, it’s not like Manny was going to miss any of it…